


Our future is greater than our past

by Ruta



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: After the battle, Badass Sansa Stark, F/M, Girl Power, Introspection, Season Finale, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-25 23:06:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18711520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruta/pseuds/Ruta
Summary: "I don't like it," you repeat, surrounding her waist and resting your forehead against hers.You are the same height, nose to nose, eyes to eyes. If you only could (not if you only wanted to. You know you want it. You want it like you wanted a few other things in your life. Knowing the truth about your mother. Being a Stark), you could touch her mouth with yours.[After the battle. Sansa-centric. Jon-centric]





	Our future is greater than our past

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a request - very descriptive - I see a couple of days ago on tumbrl, written by reign-of-sapphire. This is all her doing, entirely her idea. I only gave context and added some descriptions.  
> There is a shamelessly inspired scene from Edward and Winry in FMA

  
(Sansa)  
  
Goes like this.  
  
The battle is over and you have won. You survived. You should feel happy, relieved. Every time you close your eyes, though, you think back to the heartrending screams of women, the silent crying of children, the rasping sounds of the wights. The smell of blood and rotting flesh, the sour taste of terror in your mouth. The feeling of being once again that impotent little girl, struck by the swords of knights without honor, kneeling on flagstones. Helpless. Powerless.  
  
Once before, in the past, you experienced this desolation, this discouragement, this rage. You promised yourself that you would never ever allow it to happen again. You thought to be changed, to be different. You lied to yourself.  
  
You're stronger, but it's still not enough.  
  
*  
  
When you expose your reasons to Arya, you expect a certain kind of expression, certain words, a particular look. What you didn't expect is that she reacts as if your request didn't surprise her at all and on the contrary she considers it completely legitimate.  
  
Arya urges you to take your dagger and you widen your eyes.  
  
"Now?" You ask and feel your hands begin to tremble and sweat. You're nervous.  
  
"Why not?" Arya replies, unmoved.  
  
You obey and when you hold it, you feel stupid just like the first time. You know how you must appear in Arya's eyes. Clumsy and graceless. A part inside you whispers,  _it serves you right_ , it's as the wind blows. You once laughed with Jeyne at the way Arya seemed to stumble over her feet when she tried to dance. Now it's your turn.  
  
You prepare yourself to be criticized, derided and instead get suggestions, advice and constructive criticism expressed with a slightly teasing tone, but not enough to hurt your sensitivity. They help you understand your mistakes.  
  
And you realize that you have nothing to fear. Because Arya is your family and you are both grown up, learning to accept yourself, to appreciate what you have become.  
  
You bend your legs and arm in the stance that Arya just showed you. You raise your chin. You can do it.  
  
*  
  
(Jon)  
  
This is how it starts for you.  
  
You noticed that something has changed in the relationship between Sansa and Arya. You knew it from the moment when instead of teasing her, Arya defended her in the godswood.  
  
During the days after the battle (they already call it the Long Night and you can understand why. In a sense it seemed interminable.) you have the confirmation of it when you see them sneak over and over again together, disappear inside the fortress or head towards the godswood. At first you don't mind, even if you notice it. How could you not? Your attention is divided equally between politics and your family.  
  
The day arrives when curiosity has the upper hand. Strangely, you are alone. What's the harm in wanting to know? You follow them.  
  
You hear them before you see them. Arya is giving orders in a severe but calm and encouraging tone. If you didn't find the idea absurd, you'd almost think that -  
  
You accelerate the pace and finally get the full view. They're in front of the heart tree. Both don't wear cloaks and Sansa has her hair braided backwards in the complicated hairstyle she's been using more and more often lately. You thought it was for vanity. It was foolish of you. Sansa doesn't care about that kind of thing, not anymore. Now you sense your mistake. It was for practicality. That has always been the reason.  
  
Unseen, hidden behind the trunk of a tree, you look at them. Sansa is clearly inexperienced. Her movements, however graceful, lack precision, rapidity. They are not incisive enough. Her elbow, for example.  
  
"Your elbow is too high," Arya states and approaches to show her the most appropriate angle.  
  
You stay and it goes on like this for a while. For everything you want to say, every correction, Arya beats you on time.  
  
Silent as you arrived, you turn around to go back inside. You can recognize when your presence is not necessary.  
  
*  
  
That night, your steps lead you to her solar. You don't knock and don't regret it. Sansa's got her back to you. She didn't hear you come in and you enjoy the precious moments before she notices you. She seems so focused. In the privacy of her chambers, her hair is a free and wild waterfall behind her back. The air around her seems to vibrate and crackle with energy, the quiet before the storm.  
  
She wears that corset that resembles an armor. You regret not be able to see her expression, but you know it must be proud and determined.  
  
You look at her and you can't help feeling the usual blusterous emotions. For once you don't feel guilty.  
  
She's so beautiful that it breaks your heart, but Sansa isn't just her pretty face. She is the insight into hard eyes, the sharpness of a piercing mind, the ability to listen and be listened, the value she gives to every word because she believes that they are lethal weapons just like any sword. She is not a warrior, but her fighting spirit rivals that of the best soldiers. You look at her with your arms crossed over your chest.  
  
"You're too stiff," you comments without being able to hold back any further. You immediately regret it. If she was composed first, now her back appears to be carved in stone. You observe the change and when she turns with a lightning movement, red hair like a comet's fiery trail, her face is frowning and irritated. Whether it is with you or with herself, because she didn't hear you, you can't understand.  
  
"How long have you been there spying on me?" She asks.  
  
"I was simply offering some constructive criticism." You used a joking tone, but her reaction is instantaneous and you understand that you said the wrong thing.  
  
She lowers her eyes, and so the arm holding the dagger against her side. She bites her lip from embarrassment and frustration.  
  
Before you can say you're sorry and you didn't mean it, not in the way you said it at least, she surprises you. "You could show me," she says and crosses your gaze steadily.  
  
You nod, unable to put into words what you are thinking. She is asking for your help and you would like to be a better man and not feel this mixture of pride and happiness. With Sansa everything seems easy and goddamn complicated, even the smallest and most innocent things. You clear your throat.  
  
"Gladly," you murmur and detach yourself from the wall on which you were leaning. You move, carrying yourself behind her and if you are closer than strictly necessary, it is a secret that you will take to your grave. (You don't notice how her pupils are dilated, her flared nostrils. If you notice the redness on her cheeks, you connect it to physical exertion. You know nothing. Even today.)  
  
"Can I?" You inquire before touching her.  
  
Sansa gives you a look that you can't figure out, but nods.  
  
You place one hand on her hip, with the other you guide the movement of her arm. Meanwhile you bend to inhale the ladylike and rich scent of her skin, something sweet and acrid in the oxymoron that Sansa represents. You feel like a lost man, damned. You don't care. If the price you have to pay for being with her is this torment, you prefer it. You have been away for months and it was an agonizing experience.  
  
After you've shown her how to move, you bring yourself in front of her and point out where to hit. Closed in its sheath, the dagger touches you under the jugular, against the chest, in the stomach.  
  
"It's a good dagger," you say, observing how the handle seems made for her long, tapered hand. It fits perfectly.  
  
"Arya gave it to me during the battle."  
  
_Did you use it?_ You would like to ask her. The chance are high.  
  
"Stick them with the pointy end." Sansa is looking at you sideways. "It was the advice that Arya gave me. Her first lesson."  
  
You would like to burst out laughing, confide to her that you were the one to say that first. Instead you listen to her labored breathing and the laughter dies in your throat, assuages like steam, like breath in the coldness of the night. "It saved me. If I hadn't had this dagger, I'd probably be dead."  
  
Your grip on her becomes ironclad. To imagine her defenseless and alone in the crypts, surrounded by wights. You tried not to think about it. But now you are and your blood is freezing. You have been so close to losing her.  
  
"I don't like it," you admit and you find reflected in her shiny eyes the same liquid turmoil that shakes you to the bone, the courage born out of fear to not surviving, the strength of despair. And now confusion. She doesn't understand and why should she? Sometimes you can't understand yourself. The depth of feelings towards her is beyond all understanding and reason.  
  
"I don't like it," you repeat, surrounding her waist and resting your forehead against hers. You are the same height, nose to nose, eyes to eyes. If you only could (not if you only wanted to. You know you want it. You want it like you wanted a few other things in your life. Knowing the truth about your mother. Being a Stark), you could touch her mouth with yours.  
  
"Jon?"  
  
You hear the question in her voice. You hate the idea of her at the mercy of events, especially because it sounds so wrong.  
  
"Your hands," you begin. You want to explain how it is for you, what it means. To understand her need in learning to defend herself and at the same time to feel like a failure. She shouldn't have to do it. It is the proof that you didn't protect her as you should have. Furthermore you are terrified she's going to end up in combat.  
  
"Your hands aren't meant to kill."  
  
You see her scowl, blinking rapidly. Her eyelashes are dark and long, casting palpitating shadows against her cheekbones.  
  
"Not even to save," she says bitterly, with self-deprecation. "I want to be useful." There is something petulant in the way she said it, ardent and hurt in her expression. _I am not useless, worthless or weak_ , it's implied. You want to reassure her that if you react in this way it is precisely for the opposite reason. Suddenly she looks young and vulnerable.  
  
It is rare to remember how young she is, how young all of you are. (Your father - Ned was younger than you when he lost a father and a brother, he saw his sister die, he fought in the Rebellion.) You tend to forget that you are still young. Sometimes it seems that you are as old as a heart tree, tired as if every battle fought was worth one hundred. And it's not over yet.  
  
"You don't know how it feels," you hear her murmur, so low you wouldn't have heard it if you weren't so close. "Not being able to fight. Being forced to hide and hear around you your people, women and children you promised to protect, dying and screaming in terror, knowing you can't do anything. If only I had been faster, stronger, braver, I could have saved them. Not all of them, but at least a small part. You were right about the battle. I was stupid, but I learn from my mistakes and I don't intend to commit this one a second time."  
  
You understand how she feels. It's how you feel too thinking of Edd, of Lyanna Mormont. You could have done more. It is the guilt of the survivors. "We can't save everyone," you tell her. With the thumb you stroke the corner of her mouth. "But to know it, don't prevent us from trying."  
  
Sansa sighs and turns her face against your hand, like a flower in search of the warmth of the sun. You open your hand and rest it against her cheek and when she touches the inside of your wrist with her lips, time seems to stop for both of you, freezing. Now you finally notice it. The shortness of her breathing, her pupils dilated, the way her eyes darted towards your mouth. Oh. The temptation is irresistible.  
  
You know what's going to happen. You should be ashamed, you should think it's wrong. Sansa is your sister. But she isn't. She is your cousin and it is such a convenient solution to know that you could kiss her, that in the eyes of the gods it wouldn't be an abomination. You're about to do it, but then someone knocks at the door.  
  
*  
  
Someone knocks at the door. You look at each other, you and Jon, and the tension cracks until it breaks.  
  
You invite to enter. You already have a vague idea of who it may be so it doesn't surprise you when Brienne's blonde head peeps out. "I came to bid you a good night, my lady. If you don't need me anymore-"  
  
You observe the moment when she realizes that you are not alone. Her eyes widen and her eyebrows shoot upward. "My apologies," she says in a tone that would make other girls blush. "I hope I didn't interrupt you."  
  
The proximity of your bodies, Jon's hand still lingering on your neck. Or maybe you have become paranoid and the naked astonishment is simply due to the dagger you are still holding.  
  
"We had finished," you hear Jon say.  
  
You want to protest. There is no polite way to confirm that Brienne has indeed disturbed you and that she interrupted... whatever she interrupted. He must sense your disappointment because he smiles at you, warm and reassuring, forming crinkles at the edges of his eyes.  
  
"We will talk another time," he says with the tone of a promise and for a moment he seems to want to add more, but Brienne's presence holds him back. Your heart makes a flip. You feel the cheeks warm and you have never been so acutely aware of your body, in all its parts. You try to convince yourself that there is nothing inappropriate.  
  
When he kisses your forehead, just above the eyebrow, you can't help but compare the gesture with the affection of another brother. Robb would never have done it, not with this tenderness, with so much longing.  
  
Oh. _Oh_.  
  
It should feel wrong. You don't care.  
  
The adoration and desire in Jon's eyes... Your cousin.  
  
You see him leave, his absence already in this noticeable wave of sudden cold.  
  
You can imagine what he wants to talk about. You touch your lips with the tip of the fingers, containing little and badly a broad smile.  
  
_You can't wait_.

**Author's Note:**

> Will you be at the harvest,   
> Among the gatherers of new fruits?  
> Then you must begin today to remake  
> Your mental and spiritual world,  
> And join the warriors and celebrants  
> Of freedom, realizers of great dreams.   
> You can’t remake the world  
> Without remaking yourself.  
> Each new era begins within.  
> It is an inward event,  
> With unsuspected possibilities  
> For inner liberation.  
> We could use it to turn on  
> Our inward lights.  
> We could use it to use even the dark  
> And negative things positively.  
> We could use the new era  
> To clean our eyes,  
> To see the world differently,  
> To see ourselves more clearly.  
> Only free people can make a free world.  
> Infect the world with your light.  
> Help fulfill the golden prophecies.  
> Press forward the human genius.  
> Our future is greater than our past.
> 
> Ben Okri


End file.
